


Trials

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Deus Ex Machina, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fangirls, M/M, Porn With Plot, Post-DA2, WAFFY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "Transfigurations", Cullen faces a new challenge:  the Seekers of Truth have come for Carver Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trials

     Cullen, Knight Commander of Kirkwall (acting capacity), considered himself a man of conviction.  This conviction included but was not limited to his absolute belief in the Maker and Andraste and the Chant of Light; he also applied the principle to those things in his life which held any degree of importance for him.  His calling:  after his experiences at Kinloch Hold and the Gallows under Meredith, he no longer felt any doubt regarding his duty to guard mages -- not only from themselves, but also from malevolent others.  His martial skills:  however busy he became as the Gallows' chief administrator, he took great care to regularly visit the practice field, and on two mornings per week he sparred with Ser Carver, his Knight Captain (acting capacity).  He was not the best warrior in the Gallows -- that would be Carver -- but he was good enough to face down a Tevinter magister if necessary, and he held his men to no lower a standard than that.

     Until recently his social life had required no particular conviction, largely because it had been nonexistent -- especially since the murder of his fellow Templars at Kinloch Hold.  They had been friends, and one or two occasional lovers; he still mourned them.  The relative isolation he'd experienced since coming to Kirkwall had not troubled him.  He had his faith and duty to keep him occupied, his blankets to keep him warm at night, and if certain urges troubled him now and again -- well, the Chantry frowned upon it, but it was easy enough to take care of matters with his hand and sometimes a bit of massage liniment.  He had been raised in the Chantry, after all, knowing that he would become a Templar and likely never marry, so he suffered none of the sense of loss that a lay recruit might have.  He was content with what he had, and did not go looking for more.

     More had, however, come looking for him.  In the form of an immensely stubborn, hedonistic, damn-near-heretical, relentless, profane, _unexpectedly beautiful_ young man, by the name of Carver Hawke.

     Now that matters had fallen out this way, it was a simple-enough matter for Cullen to reorder his convictions to suit.  If the Maker had seen fit to grace him with a companion, that was not for him to question.  Neither would he squander the gift -- for he had seen, again and again, how easily and cruelly a Templar's life might be cut short.

     So he also reordered his routine to accommodate the new relationship.  Apart from the scheduled sparring matches, he also scheduled Carver's restdays to match his own, and ordered no visitors on those days save Tranquil who had volunteered to work as servants.  New recruits to the Order were expected to do menial labor too, but the Tranquil were untroubled to find their commander and captain at ease in casual clothing or shirtless, sprawled inelegantly over the couch or on the floor and laughing over something inane.  Nor were the Tranquil scandalized to find Cullen on top of Carver, riding him with slow and thorough concentration while Carver cursed and begged for more;  or under Carver, groaning and shaking with the still-novel ecstasy of having a man massage his vitals from within; or standing up against a wall and deliriously praising Carver's tongue and clever fingers; or beneath the sheets in bed, simply undulating against Carver and sighing with the sheer wonder of contact; or lying quietly naked in the aftermath of all this, unable to do anything but feel the sweat dry on his skin and know himself perfectly satisfied.

     He also scheduled extra time for Carver's evening reports, as sometimes after dismissal Carver would take a notion to administer a massage to help him relax, and more often than not this massage ended with one or both of them unarmored and partially clothed on the floor.   The report came first, though, always.  Cullen would not have it said that his priorities were out of place.  And there was no disruption to his work because of the schedule.  All of this pleased Cullen mightily.

     Thus it was inevitable that something would eventually come along to disorder everything to a completely unacceptable degree.

     He was still asleep on their shared rest day, on his belly in Carver's bed and with Carver using his back for a pillow, when a frantic knock at the door dragged him out of dreaming.  That was warning enough; no Tranquil's knock would hold such urgency.  Despite this, Cullen clambered out of the bed and crossed the room to answer it.  He had gotten very little rest the night before, as Carver had been in a demanding sort of mood and Cullen had been pleased to accommodate, but sleeping in the daytime always left him half-sensible. It did not occur to him to clothe himself -- or to wake Carver and have him answer his own door -- before he hauled the door open.

     "Oh, Knight Commander!  I thought, Knight Captain Carver --  I mean, begging your pardon, Knight Commander, ser, but it's an emergency..."  The girl was Helena, one of the recent crop of recruits who had joined the Order since Meredith's death; when she and her cohorts took their vows, they would represent the first Templars in Kirkwall untainted by Meredith's paranoia.  Her face was flushed from running, which was why Cullen did not at first correctly interpret her sudden silence or the way her eyes shifted from his face to somewhere further down.  He rubbed his face, trying to wake up more, and only then realized why she had failed to continue.

     Well.  It would be more embarrassing for him to scramble like a virginal youth to cover himself.  But he spoke sharply to bring her eyes back up the parts of him that mattered.  " _Recruit Helena_."

     She jumped and immediately fixed her gaze on his face.  "Yes, ser!  Sorry, ser!  I, er -- "  She shook herself.  "Emergency.  There's... there are people at the gates.  They are -- black armor --  The woman is asking for you -- "

     She was being particularly inarticulate.  He could hear the shift of sheets behind him as Carver woke as well, stretched with a series of joint-popping groans, and then got to his feet.  "Slow down, recruit.  What are you saying?"

     She trailed off again, eyes growing huge as Carver walked over to hear what she had to say, and belatedly Cullen remembered that Carver often woke from rest in a state of partial or complete excitement.  He understood her admiration -- he shared it, and was still a bit sore from Carver's skillful use of his natural gifts the night before -- but her inability to focus really was unacceptable.  "Helena, _if_ you please."  She jerked back to him, and took a deep breath.

     " _Seekers_ , ser," she said at last.  "The Seekers of Truth are at the gates."

#

     Carver dressed faster, as they were in his quarters and Cullen could help him with his armor.  Then while Carver headed down to deal with the visitors, Cullen headed back to his quarters, appropriated a passing Tranquil, and had the man assist him into his own robes and armor.  Then he hurried to the courtyard as well.

     He reached the courtyard to find twenty of his own Templars in U-formation, swords and shields drawn and the air all but crackling with tension, or perhaps that was a few of the younger knights having trouble with the Cleansings that were standard procedure in preparation for any battle.  They faced five black-armored figures who stood at the top of the Gallows steps.  At the head of the visitors stood a diminutive black-haired woman who radiated an air of pure menace, though that could also have been her heavy dark eye-makeup.  Or perhaps, Cullen was forced to concede, the air of menace actually came from the two daggers the woman wielded, and which she seemed to be thinking about burying in his acting Knight Captain's throat.

     It did not help, Cullen suspected, that the acting Knight Captain in question had his own blade up in attack stance, and was probably two seconds away from trying to cut the woman's head off.

     " _Hold your positions_ ," Cullen called, with enough sharpness that some of the Templars and the black-clad visitors alike jumped as if he'd unleashed a Smite.  Ser Carver did not twitch, however, and neither did the black-haired woman.  Cullen quickly moved across the courtyard to stop beside Carver.  He took care to stand at precisely the right position to prevent Carver from unleashing his attack; nor could the woman, not without lopping off some portion of Cullen as well.  This, he hoped, would encourage both potential combatants to stand down.

     Of course they did _not_.  Maker give him strength.

     "Cullen, Knight Commander attached to the Kirkwall Circle of Magi, in an acting capacity," he said to the woman by way of greeting, folding his arms in lieu of a salute or proffered hand.  This did not have to become violent, and he hoped that it would not -- but neither did he intend to politely surrender Kirkwall to the chaos that he had spent the past year fighting off.  "Greetings, Seeker..."  His eyes picked out the pips on the gorget of her armor, and then he inclined his head to show that he was honestly impressed.  "Seeker _Captain_.  May I assume you represent the group currently calling itself the Inquisition?"

     "You may not."  The woman did not shift from her stance, and she did not take her eyes off Carver.  Cullen did not blame her, for his Knight Captain could cut quite the imposing figure when he so chose.  Yet while Carver Hawke had a foot of height and probably a hundred pounds on the woman, Cullen had the distinct impression that any contest between the two was by no means a foregone conclusion.  With a sharp flutter of unease he noticed that one of her daggers -- the wider, serpent-bladed one -- bore a thin channel along the seam of the blade.  And was there a glimmer of pinkish liquid in it?  _Soldiers' bane_.  The other might have been poisoned too, but he could not tell; it was a thin, wicked little poniard, made to get between seams of plate and loops of chainmail.  A Templar-killer.

     The warriors with the woman had not drawn their blades, though they were visibly tense.  By this, Cullen hoped that there was still some chance of preventing bloodshed.

     At the woman's words, Carver hissed under his breath.  "You tried to arrest me!  You know damned well you have no authority here.  Bloody lying _fanatic_ \-- "

     "Ser Carver."  Cullen eyed his Knight Captain sharply, and Carver subsided at once.

     "I have a mandate from the Divine herself," the woman snapped, never taking her eyes from Carver.  Her voice was low, her accent aristocratic and... Orlesian?  Antivan?  Cullen was too Ferelden to really care; foreign.  "That gives me all the authority I require."    

     "That would be true," Cullen said, narrowing his eyes, "if not for recent events.  The Divine has not seen fit to oversee -- or _aid_ \-- Kirkwall since the tragic destruction of its Chantry.  The city's people cry out for spiritual guidance and go wanting.  We here in the Gallows have governed ourselves with support from the Viscount and citizenry, and in exchange we have done all _we_ could to protect the city from this awful war."

     "A war that _started here_."  Cullen could almost admire the way the woman managed to sneer while still keeping herself poised to attack.

     "Quite true.  And it started not only because of a maleficar who was permitted to run wild for too long, but because some of our own rode far beyond their mandate, from guardianship into outright abuse.  And because one of our own was corrupted by evil magic even as she sought to root it out."  The woman flinched -- and did she shift, just a little, with uncertainty?  "So you will forgive us, Seeker Captain, if we are skeptical as to your claims of authority, as I had been given to understand that the Seekers of Truth had all thrown their lot _against_ the Divine.  And you will forgive us further that we are  not quick to submit ourselves to the first _apparent tyrant_ who walks up to our gate."

     That did it.  The woman twitched, her eyes darting to him, though only briefly as Carver had not lowered his sword.  "I am within my rights to arrest any person who violates Chantry law!"

     "You are within your rights to bring charges, certainly," Cullen said, growing irritated.  "But if your charges are spurious _and you threaten my men_ , then I am within _my_ rights to object.  Vehemently."  And with that, he reached back and put a hand on the hilt of his sword, though he did not -- yet -- unlimber his shield.  He also took a deliberate step to one side, making room for Carver's swing.  Behind the woman, the other four Seekers darted nervous looks at each other and at the drawn swords of Cullen's Templars.

     The woman looked at him again, her face slack for a moment in pure shock.  Then he saw her glance around, finally taking in the full scene, and perhaps totting up her odds.   At last, with visible reluctance, she took a deep breath and forced herself to stand straight.  Her knives were still in her hands, but she lowered them to her sides.  Cullen nodded to Carver, and Carver shifted from an attack stance to one of defense, with the tip of his blade pointed down.

     "Cassandra Pentaghast," the woman said at last, lifting her chin with an indisputably noble air and gazing down her nose -- insofar as her short stature permitted -- at Cullen.  "Captain, yes, of the Seekers of Truth main branch, out of Val Royeaux.  Loyal to the White Divine, as you claim to be."  She inclined her head to Cullen, then threw a last, unmistakably hostile, glance at Carver.  "And I demand that you surrender the Champion's brother."

#

     After some further, marginally less tense, negotiation, Cullen felt sufficiently mollified to invite Seeker Captain Pentaghast -- though not her men, whom he left cooling their heels in the courtyard with Carver and the Templars there to guard them -- to his office.

     "You are bound by oath and _duty_ to obey," the Seeker snapped.

     "Indeed I am," said Cullen, watching her over his own steepled fingers as she paced back and forth in front of his desk.  Pentaghast's knives had been sheathed for now, though Cullen had no doubt that she could draw them and be at his throat in an eyeblink.  Likewise he had no doubt that she and her fellows would never leave the Gallows alive if she did.  It was as close to a stable situation as things were likely to get.

     "I am bound," Cullen added, "by oath _to the Chantry,_ and my duty is to uphold _the will of the Maker_.  Do you claim to be Him, now?"

     She rounded on him at once, radiating ominousness.  "You are protecting him," she snapped.

     "Of course," he replied, scowling.  "As I would protect anyone within my responsibility from spurious charges.  What law has Knight Captain Hawke broken?"

     Pentaghast folded her arms.  "Fraternization with apostates.  Ser Hawke is known to have consorted with Blackfeather -- that _Anders_ who murdered this city's Grand Cleric and countless others in the Chantry explosion.  And he is known to have consorted with, and failed to arrest, a Dalish elf apostate who may well have been a blood mage.  These are of course apart from the fact that he never turned in his brother, or sister -- "

     "The Order has always overlooked apostate acquaintances known prior to a Templar's oathtaking," Cullen said, rolling his eyes.  "If we didn't, we would never manage to recruit _anyone_.  And you may lay all those same charges at the feet of Knight Commander Meredith, posthumously, because she knew of the Champion's mage status, and that of his apostate companions, and she chose to do nothing about them.  Nor did she censure Ser Carver, though it was well within her rights and ability to -- "

     Pentaghast clenched her mailed fists.  "Would you slander a good woman's name?"

     "I would not," Cullen said, sitting forward in some heat, "for I admired her more than you can possibly imagine.  But it is no slander to state what is _bare truth_.  And what is also true is that these supposed crimes, Ser Carver's _consorting_ , happened years ago.  Why are you now so Void-bent on prosecuting them?"

     "The Order is in shambles, _acting_ Knight Commander.  We must put our own house in order before we seek to -- "

     "Do you think me a fool?"  Cullen disliked interrupting others, except when it had become brutally necessary to do so.  He kept his voice soft, his words precise.  It was somewhat gratifying that Pentaghast stopped pacing and faced him, her stance perceptibly growing defensive.  "Are _you_ a fool?  At a time like this, with all Thedas gone mad, the Seekers of Truth would not pursue pointless charges against a mere Knight Captain -- pardon me, _acting_ Knight Captain -- unless it served some greater purpose.  That is throwing a cup of water on a bonfire, madam; it is a waste of your time and the Chantry's strained resources.  Now.  Why are you _really_ in Kirkwall?"

     She went rigid for a moment, and Cullen held her eyes with his own, resolutely not looking at her hands or her knives.  And finally, her stiff shoulders relaxed a touch.

     "We have a small force traveling from city to city," she said at last.  "With this we have sought and questioned all of the Champion's former companions who can be found.  Here in Kirkwall we recently questioned a dwarf by the name of Varric Tethras, only to find that he had no information as to the Champion's current whereabouts.  It was my hope that the Champion's only brother might."

     So that was it.  Cullen took a deep breath for patience, and let it out in a sigh.  "And Guard Captain Aveline Vallen?  She too was a companion of the Champion."

     "We wished to avoid any incident with the city's leadership.  Captain Vallen is known to be... territorial."

     As Cullen had suspected.  "If you spoke with Serrah Tethras, then you know that Ser Carver's relationship with his brother is, at best, strained."  It should not have had to be said.  A man from a family of apostates did not become a Templar if all was well.  But he did not like discussing Carver's private affairs with this woman.  "I do not object to your questioning him -- here, under my supervision, and I will hear no more talk of arrest.  But I can assure you that he knows nothing, and hasn't even seen his brother since the very day Garrett Hawke walked out of these Gallows, in the wake of Meredith's death.  Ser Carver could easily have gone with him; it is significant that he did not.  I was there.  They didn't even say goodbye to each other."

     "I see."  This actually seemed to trouble the woman.  "Yet the dwarf seemed to feel that the Champion loved his brother, despite their difficulties, and would do anything to see him safe."

     Cullen shrugged.  "I suppose that is true.  I recall a past occasion wherein a splinter group of Templars and mages kidnapped Ser Carver from the recruit barracks here -- "  He trailed off, then, noting the sudden avid look in the Seeker's face. 

     Oh, Andraste at the stake.

     "You mean to hold him hostage."  Cullen lowered his hands to his lap, so that the woman would not see him clench his fists.  "You hope to draw the Champion out of hiding by _threatening Ser Carver_."

     She looked abashed, which confirmed it.  "Not precisely -- "  And then she fell silent, startled, as Cullen stood.

     "You will leave my office," he said.  He could hear the waver of his own voice, and it was nothing compared to the rage pounding behind his eyes.  He could hardly see with it.  He planted his hands on the desk so that he would not lunge across it to kill her.  "You and your party will _leave Kirkwall_.  Or I shall not only turn out the Gallows against you, I will activate my standing agreements with the City Guard, the Coterie, the Carta, and the alienage elves.  _The whole city_ , in other words; if you will not leave, we shall strike you down in the bloody _streets_."

     Pentaghast straightened, trying for dignity and failing; it was clear Cullen's fury had startled her.  "I have attempted to be reasonable -- "

     "Reasonable!"

     " -- and now you force me to appeal to honor.  I mean to challenge Ser Carver to a duel to test his competence." 

     When Cullen fell silent, appalled, she inclined her head.  "Yes, I see you are aware of the tradition.  Only the strongest may serve as Templars; anything less is an affront to the Maker Himself.  And he is the Knight Captain here, which means he must meet a higher standard.  Have him fight the least of my men.  An ordinary Seeker should be a match for a Knight Captain."  She lifted her chin, and under better circumstances he would find her phenomenal arrogance amusing.  "If Ser Carver wins, he may do as he pleases, and I assume he will choose to remain here.  But if my man wins, then Ser Carver is no longer a Templar.  And we will take him."

     Cullen stared at her, horrified by the genius of it.  No Templar could refuse such a challenge, and while Cullen had no doubt of Carver's skill -- he was better than Cullen, frankly -- Seekers were known to be the best warriors in Thedas, able to deal with maleficars too powerful for any ordinary Templar.  They had powers beyond those conferred by mere lyrium, and training in martial arts they were forbidden on pain of death from sharing.  Yet Carver was also unorthodox as fighters went, half mercenary and half barbarian that he was beneath his nobleman's veneer.  Surely he would not lose.  _Could_ not lose.

     But what if he did?

     Cullen's hands tightened into fists atop his paperwork.

     What if the Seekers took him?

     "No," he said.  Heard himself say.  He was trembling.  It could not be borne.  " _No_."

     "You cannot refuse -- "

     "I am by no means refusing."  A solution had appeared in his mind, stunning in its simplicity; he took a deep breath.  "I am claiming his challenge for myself."

     Pentaghast flinched.  "You're what?"

     "I will be the one to fight."  He glared at her, then straightened; he was still shaking with rage.  "By challenging my Knight Captain, whom I appointed in this time of crisis, you challenge me -- my judgment, my faith, my competence.  Therefore _I_ will be the one to take up the sword in my own defense.  And _you_ will be the one to face me."

#

     Cullen sent word that the Seekers were to be given lodging and hospitality for the night and that the practice yard should be prepped for a challenge match in the morning.  The work got done with an efficiency that suggested Carver's direct involvement, so afterward Cullen was unsurprised when Carver came in to report that the visitors were safely ensconced and all was well.

     "Very good, Knight Captain, and thank you," Cullen said, with a degree of unease.  Carver stood so still before his desk, his gaze positioned somewhere over Cullen's shoulder and his face such a mask of utter blankness that for the first time since their relationship had begun, Cullen decided to deviate from their usual protocol.  "And, er, I suppose you are owed an explanation -- "

     "Don't."  The word was so cold that Cullen fell silent at once.  Carver looked at him suddenly, and the mask cracked, and all at once Cullen realized the man was on the brink of completely losing control.  "Do not.  Say.  A sodding.  _Word_.  I have too much to do right now, I don't have the time to beat you senseless as I _should_ , even though that would at least bring this challenge back to me where it _belongs_ and stop you from _fucking protecting me_ like I'm some damsel in a cheap novel -- "

     He cut himself off then, sucking in a deep breath and closing his eyes in a visible effort to master himself.  Cullen sat in silence as he had been bidden, in some consternation and no little amount of alarm.  Carver had always been quick to anger and slow to diplomacy, but this was severe even for him.  After a moment Carver exhaled and opened his eyes.  "Ser, it is a rest day still.  I must see to the security of the Gallows for now, but once that is done, shall I see you again in your quarters?"

     He had no idea what to do with a Carver who had become so formal.  Surely there was something he could say, some crucial mix of words that would break this awful ice and fury?  They had never even quarreled before.  "Ser Carver, I -- "

     " _Yes_ , ser.  _Thank you_ , ser; I _shall_ see you later."  With not even a delay for Cullen's dismissal, Carver turned on his heel and walked out.

     Cullen marshaled his wits, eventually.

     He called in the recruit on messenger duty, and was somewhat embarrassed to see that this was Recruit Helena.  She clearly remembered their last meeting all too well; there was high color in her cheeks as she nodded acceptance of his orders.  And then she dared:  "Is it true, ser?  The strangers --  The other recruits are saying they wanted the Captain --  Will they take over the Gallows?"

     Cullen was not certain it was wise to encourage this line of questioning, but it was surely a good thing to quash rumors.  Recruits were worse than a weaving-circle.  "No, Helena, that is untrue.  But we may see some upheaval; I am to fight their leader in a challenge tomorrow morning."

     The girl's eyes went so wide that Cullen worried they might pop loose and roll off along the floor.  " _For Captain Carver_ , ser?  You and the Seeker-Captain -- over him?"

     Clearly a mistake to encourage, and he felt his own cheeks redden as he realized how much romantic gloss the girl had apparently applied to the bare circumstances.  " _Not at all_ , Helena, it is the traditional competency challenge, and perhaps you will need to research this tradition in the Gallows library and write a _very long_ paper on it.  If you continue this line of questioning."

     She flinched.  "Yes, ser.  Sorry, ser."

     Well.  Nothing to be done for it.

     Via Helena, he sent off a number of messages to the Viscount and City Guard, notifying them of the security issue and a possible change in leadership of the Gallows.  Additionally he sent letters to the king of Ferelden and his old commander at Kinloch, asking safe haven for Kirkwall's mages should the worst occur and the Circle here dissolve again.  These tasks, necessary as they were, left him heavy-hearted -- for he knew he had done good work in Kirkwall, especially given the dire circumstances.  It troubled him to think of it all undone. 

     This was the thought foremost in Cullen's mind as he came into his quarters and began to rack his armor, going through the motions by rote and without bothering to turn up the lantern's wick.  Thus he jumped when Carver's voice spoke out of the shadows.  "You shouldn't have worked so late."

     Cullen turned toward the open door of his bedchamber and made out a figure there sitting on the bed, half silhouetted by the window's moonlight.  Licking his lips, he set down the last of his armor, hung up his gambeson robe and chain, and took a step toward the bedroom.  "Yes, well."  Nothing to be done for it now.  "Have you waited long?"  That seemed a safe way to begin.

     "Not long."  A silence fell, more melancholy than tense.  Cullen frowned, trying to see Carver's face, but the fire was lit in his sitting room and there was no light in the bedchamber.  "Sorry.  About, ah, what I said earlier.  The insubordination, I mean."

     Cullen blinked, then could not help a pained smile. "I'm hardly going to throw my lover in the brig, Carver.  But I must confess..."  He groped for the words, then sighed.  "I don't understand why you're so angry.  We have faced more trying battles, each of us."  _Meredith_ , he left unspoken; they never spoke of that, if they could help it.  "I would rather face this single woman than a coven of blood mages."

     "You might die, just the same."

     Was that it, then?  "We are all of us mortal, Carver."  He said it gravely and saw Carver's shoulders twitch.  "And we are Templars; few of us will live to see our lyrium-addled retirement.  I for one would rather die in battle, a sword of the Maker to the end.  Surely you have guessed this about me?"

     Carver sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, forearms resting on his knees.  At some point he'd taken the time to shed his uniform, and now he wore only a loose shirt and trousers.  In the pale light Cullen could see only his back and one side of his face.  "Yeah," he said, softly.  "I feel the same.  But killing abominations and mind-raping maleficars... fighting mage-hating wankers who want to string up children...  That's fair.  That's what we signed on for.  Dying in a _duel_?  Flames, no."

     "Don't put me in the ground yet, man," Cullen said gruffly, though he was honestly more touched than annoyed by Carver's concern.  "I have _some_ skill."

     "I know, I know.  Sorry."  He sighed.  "You know, at first I thought maybe you didn't believe I could win, if I fought her."

     Cullen stared at him.  "Are you joking?"  Twice a week they sparred, and twice a week Carver left Cullen on his arse in the dust.  Cullen had managed a few draws; that was the best he could say.  And to his relief, Carver laughed a little.

     "Yeah.  Well.  I thought about that, realized I was being stupid."  His mirth faded, and if anything his shoulders rounded more.  "Big old stupid Carver.  My brother never trusted me to take care of myself, you know.  I'm strong enough and all, but... I was never the clever sort.  Not like you."  He paused, and Cullen said nothing.  There was a weight of things unsaid in that silence.  Sure enough, after a moment, Carver took a deep breath.  "I'm angry because... I can't think of a way to get you out of this.  _You_ thought of a way to keep _me_ safe.  But I..."  And he shrugged.

     Cullen grimaced, and then could no longer help himself; he moved into the room and put a hand on the back of Carver's neck, stroking his short, soft hair.  It solved none of his problems, but it felt better to touch him.

     "I am not so clever as you think," he said, unhappily.  "This will _not_ keep you safe from her, not completely.  If I win, certainly -- but if I lose, I will lose my commission as a Templar and be exiled from the Order."  In truth that bothered him more than dying, but he knew better than to say so at the moment.  "You'll be Knight Commander then -- but what is to stop her from simply challenging you, next?  The very circumstance I had hoped to avoid."  He sighed in frustration, then sat down beside Carver.  "All I've done is bought you time."

     "Yeah, figured that."  And because he was not nearly so stupid as he thought himself, he added, pointedly:  "So why'd you do it, given that?"

     Cullen shrugged, the fabric of his shirt rasping against Carver's at the shoulder.  "It was not my finest moment, strategically speaking."  He sighed.  "I realized her plan, and it so infuriated me that I simply did not think.  I knew only that I could not endure the thought of her somehow taking you away." 

     He still could not bear that thought.  The Seekers would make a public spectacle of Carver if they took him, because that was the whole point.  Otherwise, word would never reach the Champion in whatever hole he'd dug for himself.  Cassandra Pentaghast would clap Carver in irons, no doubt, and parade him through the city streets like a prize sacrificial bull.  And what if she did not believe Carver when he said he knew nothing?  The Seekers were known to favor torture in their interrogations.

     Carver shifted, and Cullen blinked to find Carver's hand on his own, which had clenched tight into a fist.  Then Carver's hand squeezed a little, and Cullen looked up to find Carver smiling at him, his face half-lit by the moonlight from outside.  It gave his face a lopsided look.

     "You're all worked up over this," he said.  "That's not good."  And before Cullen could think of a reply, Carver stood.  "Lie down."

     Puzzled, Cullen obeyed, and Carver coaxed him onto his belly, then straddled his legs and began a slow massage.  His hands were big and warm, and he did not stint on applying the full force of his strength.  It was blissful.  Cullen groaned appreciatively; Carver laughed.  "None of that.  Makes me start thinking of other ways to get you noisy, and you need to sleep tonight."

     Which of course turned Cullen's thoughts toward groan-inducing activities as well.  He tried to relax, recite Chant verses in his head, worry over the upcoming battle, but as Carver's gentle kneading continued he could not help but remember other things those hands had done.  How deft his fingers could be for such large, callused digits.  How creative and daring, how patient in their teaching, how tender.

     He was forced to shift his hips once, then again, trying to find a position that was comfortable.  When he did it a third time, Carver laughed softly above him.  "You want me to stop?  Dance the Remigold?  _That'll_ take your mind off things, trust me.  Or should I just bring you a bucket of cold water?"

     "You may keep your derision, thank you," Cullen said, not really irritated, and then because Carver was right and the massage was only making things worse, he turned over.  Carver rose to his knees for a moment to allow this -- and Cullen grinned and reached up to pat the prominent lump in his pants, which this movement had exposed.  "Oh?  Perhaps you _should_ dance the Remigold.  Though with three legs, that might be dangerous."

     "Was that dirty?  Did you actually say something _dirty_?"  Carver grabbed his hand to yank it away, grinning like a madman.  Then he threw up his own arms, tilting his head to the ceiling.  "Dear Maker!  I thank You with all my heart for allowing me to see this glorious day!  If I may ask another boon, please allow me to hear him say _fuck_ sometime, preferably _while_ I'm fucking him -- "

     Cullen gasped and sat up to pull down his arms, though he was laughing too.  "Stop that, blasphemer, someone will hear you!"

     "Let them."  And all at once Carver's eyes turned serious, lowering his arms and instead cupping Cullen's face.  "I could care less what anyone thinks."

     "Well, there is propriety to consider."  He liked Carver like this, though the mood seemed to take him rarely enough.  Cullen had known many strong men in his life.  The weaker ones tried to seem strong at all times, even in intimacy, little realizing such behavior only made their insecurity more apparent.  The truly strong ones could have these gentler moments.  They knew their strength as they knew their swords:  something that was part of them, yet which could be set aside at need.  He slid his hands around Carver's waist and pressed his back to urge him closer, and Carver obliged readily.

     "Don't care about _propriety_ , either."  Carver's thumbs traced the lines of Cullen's cheekbones.  He was no longer smiling.  "I only bother being discreet because it matters to you.  Though _you_ were the one who blew that out of the water, earlier."

     Cullen shrugged.  "The rumor mill had me indulging in orgies with Antivan Crows and Tevinter elves, back when Meredith was here.  It seemed to have no negative impact on our efficiency."

     "That was rumors.  Not you shaking your dick at a recruit."

     "I did not -- "  He blushed.  "And you _joined_ me at the door."

     "Because if you were gonna shake your dick at anyone, I needed her to see who got to _touch_ it.  Might as well put the rumor mill to use, warn off any competition."  The words were teasing, but the look on Carver's face was anything but.  Cullen frowned, confused at the contrast, and further confused when Carver sighed and pressed his forehead against Cullen's, shutting his eyes.

     "Carver?"

     "If you die, I'll kill you."  It was a whisper.  "I'll track you to the Maker's side, and beat you _down_."

     The utter absurdity of the words made Cullen smile, even though all he wanted in that moment was to lie down with Carver and curl 'round him 'til dawn.  "Right in front of Him?  He might object."

     "He'll get over it.  Him and Andraste can make bets on how long it'll take you to cry mercy."

     "I would never."

     "I know."  Carver fell silent then, just stroking his face, and Cullen closed his eyes as well, just feeling his closeness.

     "I should go."  Carver sighed a little.  "You won't get any sleep if I stay.  I'll be all over you all sodding night."

     Cullen swallowed, shifting again; his desire had not flagged much, despite the somber moment.  Carver was right, but...  "If we are, ah, _efficient_ about it, I cannot see how a bit of, ah, exercise now would make much difference in the morning."  He looked up at Carver, hopeful.

     Carver's eyes flicked open, searching his, and then he flashed a sharp-edged smile.  "How have you ever gotten laid, with lines like that?"

     "Oh, the kindness of strangers."  Cullen edged forward, brushing his lips against Carver's.  He thrust his hips upward a little in polite suggestion, and then had to suppress a gasp when Carver ground back against him, hard.  "The... nnh, the charity of the righteous -- "

     "Don't talk about righteousness _now_ , for fuck's sake."  And then Carver was kissing him hard, bruisingly, holding his head in place between his hands, driving a tongue into Cullen's mouth to batter and press.  Cullen had to give ground because Carver left him no choice, but that was more than well with him, because now he could suckle at Carver's tongue, which dragged a moan from Carver's throat.

     They were efficient about undressing, Carver cursing and hopping up to yank off his pants and smalls while Cullen lay back and wriggled on the bed to do the same.  He was in the middle of trying to unlace his shirt when Carver grabbed it and hauled the whole thing up over his head.  Then Cullen found himself on his back, under a Carver who claimed his mouth again while his hands roamed Cullen's bare flesh as if he'd hungered for nothing else all day.

     "Oh, Maker," Cullen breathed, half into Carver's mouth, when Carver's hand found its way between his thighs.  Carver stroked him ruthlessly, though his hand faltered when Cullen lifted his head to graze teeth over his pulse, and scraped the nails of one hand over his nipple.  With a murmured unintelligible imprecation Carver shifted to lie between his legs and ground against him helplessly, and the exquisite sensations of skin on skin and heat and hardness and hair made Cullen throw back his head, gritting his teeth to stifle his own cry.

     Efficiency.  Maker, yes, _now_.  He managed to let go of Carver to fumble at the nightstand, but his hand shook too badly.  Carver brushed his hand aside and yanked the drawer almost out of its frame, and then he rummaged and found the flask of oil that Cullen had been trying to get. 

     When he pressed the flask into Cullen's hand, he murmured, "Don't be all night about it this time, you still need to rest," and rolled.  It was torment to be denied the touch of his skin so Cullen rolled with him, and Carver wrapped legs around his waist, and it took more fumbling to get the flask open; he spilled half of it onto Carver's belly.  Frustrated, he swiped it off and slicked himself and then he was leaning in, letting his weight push Carver's thighs back and guide the movement of his hips, until he was seated to the hilt and had to stop and catch his breath.

     Carver hissed in frustration as he hit the mattress with a fist.  He'd wrapped the other around his own cock, and the way he undulated to try and coax Cullen to move was obscene all in itself.  "Don't stop, you blighter, don't _stop_ , I _need_ this -- "

     "Have patience," Cullen said, panting and willing the warning pull deep in his groin to subside.  It did, but only reluctantly; Maker, he wasn't going to last long.  But this thought made him grin.  "I'll _fuck_ you properly, never fear."  When Carver stared at him and burst into breathless laughter, Cullen did too -- and then he lifted Carver's hips and did exactly as he'd promised.

     Neither of them lasted long.  Carver came onto his own belly, making a high-pitched sound through gritted teeth as his hand jerked frantically.  His shudders dragged Cullen over with him, so powerfully that he might have uttered a few more horribly vulgar _fucks_ as his hips jerked and his thoughts stuttered and his vision went blurry and his ears rang.  Then it was done and Cullen fell onto him, both of them panting and slippery and insensible.

     He was already drifting, sweaty head pillowed on Carver's sweaty chest, when Carver shifted them to get comfortable and wrapped big heavy arms around him.  "You better survive tomorrow," he said, his voice muzzy with sleep and satiety.  "And you better win.  I don't want to go back to just wanking when I can have this."

     Cullen was too exhausted and blissful to laugh, though he did manage to say as he drifted away, "Then I'll simply have to win, won't I?"

     He said it lightly, and under the influence of bone-deep contentment.  But that did not make his conviction any less certain.

#

     In the hour before dawn Cullen awoke and carefully extricated himself from the sheets without waking Carver.  Shivering a little in the room's chill -- the fire had gone out -- he first took a quick washbasin bath.  Then he knelt at the foot of the bed to pray.

     _Merciful Andraste, I am not a righteous man._   That was undeniable; he had but to lift his eyes to see the evidence of his gluttony.  He should have felt ashamed... and yet.  Carver was no mere conquest for him -- if one could call a lover who'd pursued and tormented him to madness a conquest.  There was something more to this between them, something wholesome and enduring and not merely lustful, and did that not take away the sin of it?  Did he still besmirch the Maker's gift of life if he felt nothing but gratitude and wonder for every moment spent in Carver's presence?

     He was growing distracted.

     _Though I have made many, many mistakes in my life, I have ever striven to make myself an instrument of the Maker's will.  I thank you for your guidance so far, and any protection which you have managed to coax from Him on my behalf._   He licked his lips.  _But I must beg you for one last thing, if you will intercede with Him again:_

     He did lift his head this time, fixing his gaze on the slow-breathing, blanket-covered lump that was Carver in his bed.

_Guide my hand today.  Make me strong -- please.  I... I need to be strong._

     It was not a prayer he intended to tell the Mothers about, when next he made confession.

     Then he went into his sitting room and began to dress.  Halfway through, Carver came out of the bedroom and wordlessly began helping him into his armor.  When that was done, he handed Cullen his sword.  Cullen drew it from its scabbard and touched the flat of his sword to his forehead in salute.  Carver nodded, once, in reply.

     Then Carver dressed and headed to his quarters for his own armor, and Cullen went down to the practice yard to meditate and await Cassandra Pentaghast's challenge.

     There was a small crowd in the practice yard already:  Templars on dawnwatch, recruits who'd managed to rise early or be dragged out of bed by their friends, a good number of sleepy-eyed mages, and even a few Tranquil.  They fell silent as Cullen arrived, then whispered so that they would not disturb him.  He put them from his mind and thought of more important things.

     As the sun finally rose above the lowest rooftops of the city, murmuring among the crowd alerted him and he opened his eyes.  Carver had arrived, also washed and dressed in his full plate; he stood at the opposite end of the courtyard with arms folded, face a stony mask.  Between the gossip about his once-rumored-now-confirmed relationship with Cullen and the probable speculation about whether he would simply skip town in the night, it was no surprise half the Gallows was staring at him.

     Then there was another stir at the yard gate, and Cullen looked away to find Cassandra Pentaghast walking toward him with a grim expression.  Her four fellows, still and forbidding in their black armor, stood among the crowd already.  Pentaghast did not move immediately onto the sand and sawdust of the sparring area, however, to Cullen's surprise.  Instead she came up to him and stood close enough that their conversation could remain relatively private.

     "This isn't necessary," she said softly.  Cullen was surprised to note dark rings beneath her eyes, which even the eye-makeup could not conceal.  "You are a good man; anyone can see that.  The Order needs good men.  I don't want to fight you."

     "If I win, I will not be lost to the Order," he said primly; he was growing tired of everyone assuming that this contest had a foregone conclusion.  "As for whether we need to fight, I too abhor unnecessary violence.  But it must be asked:  if I withdraw my challenge, will you still challenge or attempt to arrest Carver Hawke?"

     "I must."  She looked away, clearly unhappy.  "The fate of Thedas may depend on my finding the Champion; can you not understand that?  I will use any means at my disposal to do so."

     Cullen nodded.  "Then my challenge stands."

     "You would risk your position for one man?"  Pentaghast scowled.  "You risk the Gallows itself.  If I defeat you and take Hawke, who will be your successor?  Will your mages here rebel if the new commander is sympathetic with the Inquisition?  Will the Templars rebel if she is not?  Give me Hawke, and nothing else need change."

     " _Carver Hawke_ is the reason this Circle is stable," Cullen snapped.  He said it too-loudly, and some of the watchers looked at him in surprise, but really, this was just the limit.  Had she done no research before barging into a situation she clearly did not understand?  "I was reared in the Chantry and tempered on the forge of the maleficar Uldred's rebellion, but he is a _born_ Templar; mages are family to him, to be loved and protected as well as feared.  The Order needs more like him, not fewer."  Then he shook his head, wearily.  "Enough; if you will not be swayed, then there is only one way out of this impasse."

     Pentaghast sighed and shook her head.  "Stubborn.  Very well; remember that I tried to avoid this."  She turned away, this time moving across the practice yard and stopping opposite him, perhaps ten paces away.  She drew her blades.

     "The rules of the challenge are thus," called one of the other Seekers, a man who looked to be Pentaghast's second-in-command.  "The combatants may use any means at their sole disposal, and any resources kept on their person.  The battle ends when one party yields or is dead.  Wait for my signal to begin."  He raised a hand.

     "Understood," said Cullen, and he took an aggressive stance, sword and shield at the ready.  He wore no helmet, though neither did she; both of them would need maximum visibility for this fight.

     Pentaghast nodded, sinking into a low, swaying couch like nothing Cullen had ever seen.

     _She will be fast_ , he thought.  Dual wielders always were.  He had fought the kind before, smugglers and slavers and such; he knew some of the tricks she was likely to use, like poison and traps and feints of such speed that she might seem to vanish.  Her daggers alone lacked the reach and defensiveness of his sword and shield, and she was too small to match his strength.  If he struck her only a few blows, that would end the battle -- but the difficulty would be _landing_ them.

     Then the officiating Seeker dropped his arm -- and Cullen realized just how badly-outclassed he was, as Pentaghast sprang into the air and somersaulted over his head from twenty feet away.

     _Maker's breath!_   He stopped gaping at once and lunged forward, intuiting her goal:  she meant to use the momentum of her leap to slam down on his shield, breaking his guard and probably his arm in the process.  And indeed, as she landed where he would have been, an instant later she was running at him, low, her face intent.  Cullen turned to meet her charge with his shield, trying to knock her knives aside; he followed this as quickly as he could with a thrust of his sword, which made her hiss and duck away.  They circled one another then, warily.

     Cullen swallowed fear; the skirmish had taught him much, and none of it reassured.  Pentaghast was as far above the rogues he'd fought as the Champion had been above the average Circle mage; he faced someone at the pinnacle of intense, unorthodox training.  But he had learned a few off-the-books tricks himself, and perhaps she would not be ready for those.

     "This is foolish," Pentaghast said again.  She drew herself upright, knives held in a completely illogical position at her sides:  one the usual way, the other pointed backward in an overhand grip.  "I can see that you know nothing of the Pentaghasts, Knight Commander.  We are out of Nevarra, and we made our fortune trying to wipe out the entire dragon species.  We came near to succeeding.  To be vested in the clan, each of us must hunt and kill a drake or wyvern upon coming of age.  I am the current head of the family:  I fought and killed a High Dragon to earn it.  _Alone_."

     Cullen set his jaw.  He had heard some of the rumors, yes, and it was troubling to hear her confirmation.  But...

     He could not help it; he glanced to one side.  Carver stood like one of the statues that had once existed in the Gallows courtyard, utterly still.  But Cullen knew him too well to mistake the tension in his body, and the muscles of his jaw were tight.

     He turned his full attention back to Pentaghast, and shifted his own stance to something new:  sword held overhead, weight balanced to one side.  He had not thrown down his shield, but he tried to make himself unsee it.  Pentaghast was too good; the shield could no longer be the focus of his defense.

     "Come, then," he said.  "We shall see if I can at least be a worthy foe for you."

     She came.  And dear Maker, she was fast.  She spun like a whirlwind as she ran a circle around him, her blades sparking off the metal of his shield -- but why was she focused on his shield at all, when he had left his body open a-purpose?  _There!_   He lunged to one side and felt the wind of it as her foot slashed, heel first, through the space where his leg had been.  An odd strike.  It left her off-balance for just a moment, so he swung his sword to land a bruising blow that she just blocked with her knives.  She danced back immediately, and then he saw it:  a _third_ blade, this one thin and curved, jutting from the heel of her mailed boot.  It glistened, this blade, with oil or...

     _Poison._   Damnation.

     For Pentaghast's part, she was looking at him oddly, her eyes narrowing as Cullen assumed his prior stance.  "That isn't Chantry training."

     "Chantry training alone... is insufficient for life in Kirkwall."  Demons, was he already out of breath?  He would have to increase his sparring regimen.  "In the last five years alone the area has seen darkspawn, Dalish, and Qunari mages, in addition to the usual local maleficarum.  And, of course, remarkably strong apostate imports, such as our Champion."  He did not glance at Carver; he could not, not now.  "Meredith asked her officers to consider more _creative_ approaches to such problems."

     "Interesting."  Then Pentaghast shifted into yet another peculiar new stance.  "Very well; prepare yourself."

     Even with that warning Cullen was shocked by what happened.  There was a flicker of her form, and though his instincts cried a warning his eyes insisted that she was _still there_ , and he hesitated.  That hesitation cost him dearly:  her poniard pierced his armor at the juncture of chest and back-plate, and went through the chain shirt like it wasn't there.  He was already twisting away, instinct trumping reason at the last, but the pain that skewered into his vitals was sharp and sickening.

     And welcome.

     _Channel -- away --_   Yes.  There was no pain.  He did not feel it.  It did not exist; he _denied_ it.  And with this denial he reached within himself, and via the same focus he used to smite away the contamination of magic, he set the pain back on she who had inflicted it.

     She was already turning her bloody knife for another strike, but all at once she cried out and crumpled to the ground.  Before Cullen could twist his sword down to stab her, she managed to roll away and stagger quickly to her feet.  Aiming one knife at Cullen to keep him at bay, she felt at her side with the other hand -- but finding no wound, she inhaled and glared at him.

     "Reaver," she snarled.  "You're a Void-damned _reaver_."

     There was blood trickling down Cullen's side, warm and slick as it soaked through his gambeson -- no.  It was not there.  There was no wound.  He pulled himself upright and crouched once more in the stance called Channel, because it reminded the warrior that he was but a conduit.  Through him, _pain given_ became _pain returned_ , tenfold.  Yes.  He also suppressed his own awe at the reaving's effectiveness, because this was the first time he had ever done it; the skill was not precisely the sort one inflicted on sparring partners.  But he had to concentrate for it to work, and so he took a deep breath and regained focus.

     "It seemed useful," he said.

     The phantom wound clearly pained Pentaghast; she hissed and took another stance, but he saw her favor that side.  "It's no better than blood magic!"

     "I am no mage, Seeker Captain, as you well know."  His vision blurred for a moment.  Poison on the knife, perhaps?  Something only mildly debilitating, if so.  The poniard was meant to do damage all on its own.  The heel-sticker, though, and the flat dragonbone blade, were less useful against plate and chain.  She would have something worse on those.  He continued:  "And _you_ were the one who chose to spill my blood.  I meant to use this technique only against blood mages, but I never dreamt another defender of the faith would _stab me in the liver_.  I suppose that makes me naïve."  He shrugged, though that movement sent another wave of not-pain through him.  He concentrated to send it elsewhere, and Pentaghast shuddered, baring her teeth in fury.

     "I had decided not to kill you."  Pentaghast shifted, and he did not imagine it; she moved the dragonbone knife forward more, readying it.  "You could still be an asset to the Order, even as a layman; the Seekers employ mercenaries from time to time.  Now -- "

     There was a hiss of metal to the side, and both of them whipped around to see Carver Hawke unlimbering his two-hander.  Even Cullen flinched at the look on the man's face; Carver looked quite unhinged.  "Do it and I'll cut you in half before you can draw breath to cheer your own victory, bitch."

     Oh, _Void_.  "Knight Captain."  When he did not react, Cullen spoke more sharply.  "Carver!"  He jerked and looked at Cullen, and Cullen had no choice but to glare him down. If Carver intervened the match would be forfeited on Cullen's behalf, and then she would _have_ him.  Cullen shook his head slowly, trying to ask with his eyes while he commanded with his voice.  "Stand _down_ , Knight Captain."

     Carver's expression was pure mutiny; it wasn't working.  Cullen closed his eyes for a breath, aching in a way that had nothing to do with his wound.  Would that he could transfer _this_ to Pentaghast; if he could, it would undo her, he felt certain.

     "Please," he said at last.  It was perhaps a cruel tactic; he had never spoken to Carver in that voice outside the privacy of their quarters.  And Carver flinched with the blow of it.  But it worked: with a heavy sigh, Carver put his two-hander back in its sheath.

     Thank the Maker.  Cullen exhaled and faced Cassandra Pentaghast again -- only to find her looking at him, then at Carver, and back again.  Her eyes narrowed.

     Enough; he had to end this soon.  He crouched again, ready, ignoring the lightheadedness and the way his gambeson pulled on the side, stuck with blood.  "Prepare yourself, Seeker Captain."

     And he Smote as he lunged, hoping the force of the anti-magic wave would stagger her.  It did not, but it did startle her; instead of dodging his attack she was forced to parry with her knives.  He startled her further by throwing his shield at her.  It made a poor missile, easy to deflect and not heavy enough to pull her down, but it was cumbersome, and while she cursed and tried to shoulder it out of the way, Cullen dodged her whirring blades and stabbed her in the belly. 

     Or he tried to.  The blade punched in her armor, and he heard the tear of metal, but the blade lodged in her chain shirt and he was forced to withdraw or be disarmed.  Whatever poison she'd used -- or perhaps blood loss -- had weakened his arm.  She gasped and was thrown back by the strength of the blow anyway; if nothing else she would have a good solid bruise there, perhaps hampering her movements a bit.

     Pentaghast looked up, eyes blazing, and he saw his own death in her eyes.

     She ran at him and leapt again, at close range and screaming like a madwoman this time, and _tackled_ Cullen feet-first, her full weight bowling him backward.  He had enough presence of mind left to roll with the momentum of her charge, curling his body and using knees and hands to throw her off, but as she flipped away he saw the dragonbone knife flash near his right eye.  _Andraste save me!_   He tried to duck away but was not fast enough, and he felt the sting of her blade along the side of his neck.  A thin, shallow slice, barely breaking the skin.

     _What?_   It was in no way a fatal or even crippling strike.  And he had felt her hold back; why had she even bothered, when she might have slit him ear to ear?  Then, as he rolled to his belly and started to push himself up, he felt the poison drive icy knives into his spine.

     _Oh Andraste, oh Maker, what --_

     He screamed and fell on his face, shaking.  There was no reaving this, though, because it was not pain.  It was numbness; all down the right side of his body, he could feel nothing below the sting on his neck.

     Beyond him, through a haze of confusion and rising alarm, he heard Cassandra Pentaghast climb laboriously to her feet.

     "You should yield," she said.  Under better circumstances he would have been glad to hear the breathlessness in her voice.  "That was a poison used by the Antivan Crows.  I have no idea what's in it and I don't know if it will kill you or just leave you paralyzed for Maker-knows-how-long.  I suspect the latter, since Crows usually prefer to strike the final blow themselves."

     Cullen could still move.  His left hand:  when he willed it, the fingers clenched.  With some scrabbling he managed to plant the hand on the ground and push, and slowly his body came off the ground.  With a grunt he forced his left leg to move as well, and he used it to help lever the rest of him up to hands and knees.  But his body hung, deadweight.  His left side worked, poorly.  The right side of him, everything below the neck, remained limp and numb.  He couldn't even breathe well; perhaps only one of his lungs still functioned.  Would it numb half his heart, too?  What would happen if it did?

     At least he could no longer feel the wound in his side.  Thank the Maker for small blessings.

     "So it is not as complete a poison as I'd hoped.  A shame."  Her feet stopped just before his face.  With a great effort Cullen lifted his head, blinking sweat from his eyes; the dragonbone knife pointed at his face.  "Or perhaps you are simply more strong-willed than I had thought.  No one has scored a hit on me in years, Knight Commander; I commend you for it.  But now I will have your surrender." 

     Dimly, through the harsh pounding of his own pulse, Cullen became aware of silence throughout the practice yard.  It took an effort to turn his head.  He rolled his eyes and saw that the crowd watching the match had trebled, more; the whole of the Gallows, it seemed, had come out to watch him fight.

     To watch him _fail_.  In the part of his belly that he could still feel, he was conscious of a deep, empty misery.  He could no longer fight, not with only half a body, and the half that worked trembling and sluggish and weak.  At best he could fling himself at Pentaghast and hope to smother her with his body weight.  The thought made him laugh weakly, bitterly; perhaps the poison was affecting his mind.

     But.  He tried to look at Carver, and could not raise his head that high.  He saw the man's robed legs, stock-still in the sawdust.  There was a nick on the left-side hem, he thought muzzily.  A Knight Captain really should be spotless; he would have to remember to chide Carver on that, get him to have a recruit repair it, before he formally abdicated command of the Gallows.

     He closed his eyes, and for the most fleeting of moments felt the softness of Carver's mouth against his own.

     "Knight Commander."  Impatience sharpened Cassandra Pentaghast's voice.  "Do not force me to kill you."

     "He can't _speak_ , you fucking cow."  Carver, his voice all but trembling in rage.

     "I... can speak."

     "Then yield.  Your Circle has spirit healers; they might repair the damage to your body.  I don't want to kill a good man."  She paused, and perhaps it was the drumbeat of his blood, but somehow Cullen knew what she would say next.  "Nor one who is so _beloved_ of his subordinates."

     Cullen could almost feel the slyness of it, the teasing way she eyed Carver even as she threatened him.

     No.

     "You'll kill him if I don't go with you, that's what you mean."  If anything, Carver was angrier; Cullen could not help smiling at that.  She had no idea what sort of man she was toying with.  Or perhaps she did; regardless, she meant to break him.

     _No_.

     "I said nothing of the sort, Knight Captain.  I merely restate the rules of our match:  it can end only with your commander's surrender, or his death."

     "Or yours."  Carver again, his voice lethal.

     "Not before I slit his throat."  And another knife moved into Cullen's field of vision.  The poniard this time.  Ah, yes; quicker, less painful.  How kind of her.

     How _unacceptable_.

     "You'd better never sleep," said Carver, very softly.  "You'd better keep me in chains and guarded, _drugged_ , day and night.  And hope your men never slip up."

     "I will take that under advisement.  Now:  does the Knight Commander yield?  Or _you_ do, Ser Hawke?  I am willing to accept your surrender in lieu of his."  Her voice turned cajoling; the knife wavered a little as she turned to face Carver.  "Just think:  if you do, he can retain not only his life, but his position, his dignity -- "

     " _Shut_ that!  Don't talk to me about _dignity_ when you poisoned him just to get at me!"

     Cullen agreed wholeheartedly.  He pushed himself back to sit on his knees, and reached with his working hand for the shield he'd discarded.  The sword was on the ground, where he'd dropped it after Pentaghast's mad charge; too far away to reach, and he had no hand that could wield it in any case.  He set the shield on its edge and laboriously began using it to pull himself to his feet.

     "This was his choice," Pentaghast snapped.  "To sacrifice himself for his _lover_.  You should honor him by -- "  A startled pause.  Cullen had to concentrate on keeping the shield balanced; he could not look at them.  "Knight Commander, what are you doing?"

     "I -- "  He slipped, fell back to his knees.  Damnation.  He could not talk and do this.  He sucked in air.  " _I do not yield_."  There, it was said.  He set the shield again, and began to push up.

     "Cullen, Maker, you can't -- "  That was Carver, about to do something stupid.  Cullen made a sound low in his throat, harsh and negative, and Carver subsided.

     "Knight Commander."  Was that ridicule in Pentaghast's voice?  He set his teeth and pushed harder, panting.  There:  he managed to set his left foot, using the shield for balance.  Then he leaned on it, to catch his breath.  " _Knight Commander_."

     "I do not yield," he said again, around panting.  What did she think -- that he would allow Carver to face this madness while he still had breath in his body?  This woman was nothing compared to Meredith.  _She_ had at least understood the importance of honor to a Templar. 

     _Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked_ , he heard his former commander's voice growl, and to himself he smiled.  With this smile on his face he lifted his head at last to see Pentaghast gaping at him openmouthed.  Not ridicule, then; good.  Beyond her, Carver had his sword in hand again, though he had not crossed the border of the practice ring.  He stared at Cullen, his usual stony mask completely shattered into incredulity.  Ah, yes, there it was at last:  incredulity and _beauty_.  Cullen could die content, having seen that.

     He said to Pentaghast, with all the strength and heat his abused body could muster: "And I _do.  Not.  Falter_."

     Pentaghast flinched, staring.  And then, before she could raise her knives to finally kill him, another voice drawled from somewhere behind the watching crowd, "Well, don't _you_ sound... _resolute_."

     Everyone went still.  And then the crowd near the gate parted, murmuring, as Viscount Bran walked in, flanked by Guard Captain Vallen and her lieutenant, Guardsman Hendyr.  And a good _fifty_ additional guards, who tromped in around the crowd and positioned themselves in a circle around Cassandra Pentaghast, with a smaller circle around her fellow Seekers.

     Then to Cullen's further shock, most of the Templars assembled in the practice yard drew blades -- not to fight off the intruders, but stepping up to stand _with_ them.  And beyond them there was a flare of magic that made all the lyrium in Cullen's blood burn, even in the half-dead part of him, as what looked like every senior mage in the Circle readied offensive spells.

     Blinking through sweat, Cullen looked at Carver.  Carver shook his head and mouthed, _I have no idea._

     Cassandra Pentaghast did not, to her credit, show any sign of the alarm she must have felt.  And apparently she knew Kirkwall's Viscount on sight -- that, or his heavy robes and spiked circlet gave it away -- for she sheathed her knives at once and offered him a formal bow.  "My lord Viscount," she said politely, though her tone was less than reverent.  "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

     "To my own love of peace," said Bran, making some sort of gesture that apparently indicated Pentaghast could rise; Cullen understood nothing of nobility.  "And to my great distaste for unclear lines of communication."

     "I..."  Pentaghast frowned in confusion.  Cullen almost felt sorry for her.  Bran was an artist of the oblique insult; no doubt he'd meant to make Pentaghast look stupid, and he was succeeding brilliantly.  But what was he even doing here?

     "Imagine how _troubled_ I was to hear that the Chantry had developed a sudden interest in my Gallows," Bran continued, folding his arms and pacing about the practice yard; he gazed at the targets and equipment in obvious distaste.  "And without so much as a by-your-leave!  That's really quite rude, Seeker -- Pentaghast, is it?  Of the Nevarran Pentaghasts?"

     She drew herself up.  "Indeed, Viscount."

     "Yes, yes.  Brutish people, killing anything in sight to somehow prove nobility.  Or so I hear."  He turned away, and everyone but him saw how Pentaghast bristled.  Cullen was fairly certain that Bran knew it anyway.  "Dear Maker, Knight Commander!  You look so _heroic_ , drooping and bleeding there.  I hardly recognized you.  Someone come, er, prop him up -- "

     "No," said Cullen.  It was easier to speak now that he was upright, though he still had to husband his air carefully.  "The... the challenge is... yet unresolved."

     "Is this some barbaric Templar custom?  You cannot be helped until it's done?"  Bran looked honestly revolted.  He turned to the Seeker, and perhaps it was only Cullen, who'd had to endure the man in meetings every week for the past year, who recognized the squaring of his shoulders.  The Viscount had his own ways of doing battle.  "Very well, let's have done.  I received a letter last night, Seeker, from our dear Knight Commander, advising me in the most cryptic way that he might soon be replaced by... someone, and that his equally dear Knight Captain might also be... something, and that you were the cause of all of it."

     Pentaghast was beginning to look as ill as Cullen felt.  "...Yes."

     "And then I heard from this charming young lady -- "  Bran gestured back toward the gate, where Cullen saw Recruit Helena trying to hide behind one of the stouter mages, who merely looked annoyed and stepped aside to reveal her.  " -- that it was all _very_ sad, a terrible woman had come to separate the star-crossed lovers, who'd been forced by propriety and circumstance to keep their doomed affair secret even though they were so very _beautiful_ together -- "

     Carver groaned aloud and clapped one mailed hand over his face.  Cullen felt that this spoke for them both.

     " -- or something."  Bran took a deep breath.  "In any case, Seeker, what have you to say for yourself?"

     She took an audible deep breath, perhaps to rein in her temper.  "My apologies for not _communicating_ , Viscount, but I am enacting the will of the Divine -- "

     "Who has absolutely no authority here."  Bran's voice was a whip now.  He had stopped pacing.  "Surely Knight Commander Cullen explained this?"

     Pentaghast's jaw muscles flexed.  "The Templar Order is the demesne of the _Andrastean faith_."

     "Oh, yes, in most cities, and once it was so here as well.  But now the Templars and mages of Kirkwall _belong to_ Kirkwall; we certainly pay enough for their upkeep.  And therefore you have no authority whatsoever to dictate the Gallows' leadership.  Or to beat said leadership to a bloody pulp."  He threw an exasperated glance at Cullen.  "Oh, _do_ stop being noble, Commander.  Everyone can see that you'll stand 'til your bones break; your point is made."

     A moment later, before Cullen could muster the strength to speak, Carver tromped over and grabbed his arm, helping him up on the paralyzed side.  "No -- " said Cullen.

     "Hush," Carver murmured, so softly that only Cullen heard him.  "You've won, you fool; don't ruin it."

     "And further," said the Viscount, on a roll now if Cullen was any judge, "there's the matter of Knight Captain Carver Hawke, whom I understand is to become your hostage?  So that the missing Champion will come flying to you like a bee to honey?"  Bran exhaled and put his hands on his hips.  "No, no, both of the Hawkes are of great value to Kirkwall in one way or another, so I cannot allow that.  Or to put it in terms you might understand better:  _this_ Hawke is _our_ hostage.  You cannot have him; go find your own."

     Pentaghast rocked back on her heels, her eyes widening, but she regrouped quickly. "He is a criminal, Viscount," she blurted.  "He has aided and abetted apostates -- "

     "So has _Kirkwall_ , given that we knowingly made one our Champion.  Do you mean to arrest the whole quarter-million of us?  That _would_ be a sight."

     "Viscount," said Pentaghast, all but gritting her teeth, "the Divine will protest your interference in her authority.  _Strongly._   Perhaps violently."

     "Not without an army, she won't."  And Bran looked around the practice yard at several hundred men, women, and even a few apprentice children, all arrayed against the Seekers.  "Perhaps she should stop alienating the one she had, hmm?"

     The Seeker Captain was not a stupid woman.  After a moment of furious silence, she drew in and let out a deep breath.  Twice.  "What, then, is your pleasure, Viscount Bran?"

     Bran looked surprised.  "Why, only that you leave Kirkwall for good, with no more than the people you came alongside, and nothing more than the horses you rode in on."

     The laughter of the crowd seemed to startle Pentaghast; she looked around at all of them, and then finally slumped.  "It shall be done as you say, my lord."

     With that, she turned to Cullen and Carver.  Cullen felt Carver tense against him, and thought that perhaps he'd freed one hand so he could go for his sword if he had to.  He couldn't be sure of anything on that side of his body.

     "The challenge remains unresolved, Knight Commander," Pentaghast said, folding her arms.  "I take it you still will not yield?"

     Cullen forced a laugh, since the whole situation was utterly, horrifically laughable.  "No."

     She sighed.  "You read me right, I suppose; I could never have killed you in cold blood.  So long as you held firm, your victory was inevitable."

     Cullen blinked in surprise.  Carver snorted.  "It was a stupid-arse excuse for coming after me, anyway.  A fight to prove _competence_?  When Kirkwall's the only city in the whole damned Free Marches that hasn't gone to shit?  That's not a fucking accident."

     "Trust me," said Pentaghast, with a rueful look around at their audience, "I have been made _quite_ aware of how good the Knight Commander is at a Templar's work.  Kirkwall seems rather ably defended against magic... and everything else."  She grimaced a little and added, "It seems equally vital that Knight Commander Cullen retain the Knight Captain who has helped him achieve all this.  So be it, then."

     Drawing a deep breath, Pentaghast straightened and raised her voice.  "I yield to the Knight Commander of Kirkwall.  By the dictates of the Order of Templars, he has proven fit."

     The cheer that greeted these words nearly deafened Cullen; he suspected one of the mages had used an amplification spell.  The crowd kept cheering as Seeker Pentaghast turned on her heel and marched out of the practice yard at a dignified pace, with her fellow Seekers falling in behind her.  Beyond the gate, Cullen glimpsed a double line of City Guards bracketing a path all the way to the Gallows ferry.

     If Cullen had not already been too weak to stand, his knees might have buckled.

     The Viscount watched them leave and then sighed, coming over with Vallen and Hendyr.  He looked more annoyed than Cullen had ever seen him.  "You had better remember this at the next appropriations meeting," he said hotly, "or maybe at the next _ten_.  And do not mistake me, Cullen; if I hadn't already seen the madness that erupts whenever the Gallows is poorly-commanded, I wouldn't have lifted a finger to aid you."

     "Of that... I have no doubt, ser," Cullen murmured.  "Th- thank you, in any case."  Bran sort of huffed at this, but Cullen thought he might be pleased.

     "As you say, ser," added Carver; "Thank you, messere Viscount."  But he smirked as he said it, which drew a dark look from Bran.

     "I'd say there's little chance of our losing the good Knight Commander to folly this time," Captain Vallen interjected wryly.  "Not if he's gone and attached himself to a Hawke; they tend to be rather ferocious in looking after what's theirs."  She smiled at Carver, who looked rather taken aback by this praise; he nodded, awkwardly.

     "Hmm," said Bran, sounding unconvinced.  "All this _fraternization_..."  Then he glanced at Vallen, and at Donnic Hendyr -- her husband -- and sighed.  "Maker's mercy, I suppose I should at least be glad _those_ two can't breed more like them.  Come, let us return to the Keep.  This place reeks of sweat and _melodrama_."

     And he swept out, with the Captain and her Guard at his back.

     "You can pass out now," said Carver softly, while all around them the cheers continued and the mages sent up little sparks and wisps in celebration.  "Don't worry.  I won't let you fall."  So Cullen gratefully obeyed.

#

     It took Cullen a month to recover.  He did not remember much of it after the poison spread to encompass his whole body, and the spirit healers put him into an enchanted sleep so that his mind would not suffer while they fought to keep his lungs functioning and his heart beating.  The healers were evasive upon later questioning, so Cullen asked the Tranquil who'd been responsible for his bodily care during this time, and received a full report. Apparently Cullen had seemed about to die, before Ser Carver vanished for a few days and returned in the company of a strange blond elf who made inappropriate jokes and carried a remarkable array of knives.  The elf had given Ser Carver an antidote for the poison, propositioned him for sex, and upon being vehemently turned down had instead suggested he pass on the request to Cullen when he was feeling better.  Then he'd vanished, and within hours the healers had pronounced Cullen safe from danger.

     Now Cullen stood at the window of his quarters, watching Carver drill the newest recruits down in the practice yard.  There did seem to be more of them than usual, as he'd remarked to Recruit Helena when she arrived to bring him breakfast.  "Oh, yes ser," she'd said, beaming.  "All my friends outside the Gallows keep asking me about joining up!  Word's all over the city about how you singlehandedly fought off the Inquisition itself to protect Ser Carver's virtue -- "  And then he'd glared at her, and she'd fled the chamber quickly.

     As he finished breakfast -- at his sitting room table this time, _not_ abed for once -- Carver walked in, slapping his gauntlets against his thigh and looking pleased and a bit dirty.  "Here, now," he said.  "I was all set to tell you to get your arse back to bed.  Saw you at the window."

     "That would be insubordinate, to say nothing of rude," said Cullen, gesturing to the other chair, where Carver sat with a little puff of dust.

     "All right; 'get your arse back to bed, _ser_.'  Would that have worked?"  He grinned as Cullen shook his head and _tsk_ ed.

     "A month unsupervised and you have grown undisciplined and willful.  I shall have to take you in hand, Ser Carver."

     He realized what he'd walked into an instant after Carver's grin turned lascivious.  "Oh, _please do_ , Knight Commander ser.  I've had a month with nothing but my own hand; I'm starting to chafe."  When Cullen recovered from groaning, he found that Carver's smile had softened, and he was gazing at Cullen in apparent deep thought.  "You're looking well.  Better than -- "  And abruptly he cut himself off, his smile faltering, and it occurred to Cullen that the past month must have been more difficult than Carver let on.

     "I feel well," Cullen said gently, to reassure.

     "Good."  An uncomfortable silence fell, and then Carver coughed into his hand, scowling and looking gruff.  "Haven't yelled at you yet about getting all chivalrous on me."

     "Oh, for Andraste's sake, have you been listening to those swooning idiot recruits?  I fought for my _own_ honor, thank you."  Cullen drew himself up.  There was the faintest pull on his side as he did so; Cassandra Pentaghast's knife had left a deep scar.  Still, all things considered, he had been lucky to come out of this as well as he had.  "And I fought for the peace and safety of the Gallows, and Kirkwall."  Much as it amazed him to say that.  He could not think when this place had grown on him, so.

     Then he looked across the table, and remembered.

     Carver grunted at this, noncommittally.  "You mean what you said to Serrah Shit-Seeker back then?"  He jerked his head toward the practice yard, and after a confused moment Cullen realized he meant Seeker Captain Pentaghast.  "About me being the reason the Circle is... and all that?"

     Cullen did not smile.  He had learned over the past year that there were times when Carver doubted himself; it had amazed Cullen to realize this, but there it was.  Any hint of ridicule only fueled his fears, so Cullen showed him truth, instead.  "You are essential to all Kirkwall, Carver.  Do you really think the Viscount would have stirred himself, otherwise?"  Carver grimaced in understanding; neither of them liked Bran much, even though Carver had been the one to suggest making him Viscount.  Then Cullen added, carefully, "And you are of course essential to _me_.  Both professionally and... otherwise."

     Carver shrugged a little, his armor creaking, then propped one fist on the table, leaning back and draping his other arm over the back of the chair.  Cullen was not fooled.

     "Should've told me about you being a reaver.  I wouldn't've worried so much if I'd known."

     "For what little good it did."  Cullen shrugged.  "And since there was no need, it didn't come up.  But I do apologize for adding to your concerns in any way."

     "Right.  Well."  Carver took a deep breath, and his voice grew very soft.  "All I could think, when you went down, I mean, was..."  He fell silent.

     "I know," Cullen said gently.  "I thought it, too."

     The silence stretched on for a moment.  Then Carver looked up, and Cullen blinked at the sudden rawness of his expression.  "My brother's dead, you know," he said.  "Has to be.  He wouldn't just sit out this war, watching good people die on both sides and in between.  That Seeker was right; he can stop it.  If he was... still around, he'd _try_."

     Cullen shifted uncomfortably.  "That is a possibility."  Another reason he hadn't wanted Pentaghast to take Carver; he'd suspected it was pointless.  But it troubled him that Carver had no hope either.  That wasn't like him.

     Carver's jaw flexed, and he blurted:  "All I can think is that you're all I've got left.  The most important thing in the world to me, that's you.  And I can't lose you."

     Cullen stared back at him, stunned into silence.  Carver looked away again, quickly, though there was nothing to see through the window except a passing cloud.

     A statement so profound...  It _reverberated_ in Cullen's chest, made him ache all over in a truly wondrous way.  And it deserved a response.  But he could think of nothing to say that was worthy of the emotion Carver had put into those words, except...  He licked his lips, and stretched out a hand to touch Carver's fist on the table.  The fist was tight as a stone, though it relaxed somewhat when Cullen ran his fingers over the scarred knuckles.

     "My life, and my sword," he said, "and everything of me that the Maker does not claim... are yours, Carver Hawke.  This I vow."

     Carver did not turn to him, though Cullen saw his eyes close, and the muscles of his neck twitch.  His hand relaxed, however, and at Cullen's coaxing, turned over.  Cullen then laced his fingers through Carver's, and did not remark on how Carver's trembled.

     They sat that way for another hour or so, 'til a bell at the top of the Gallows tower signaled the changing of the watch. 

     Then Carver drew in a deep breath and rose to return to his duties.  Cullen let him go, and watched as he went to the door of the chamber.  At the door Carver stopped, his back to Cullen.

     "Been thinking about moving into officers' quarters," he said.

     "That is your due," Cullen replied, a bit mystified.  " _Over_ due, in fact."  Carver had kept his lowly mid-level knight's room even after his appointment.  Cullen had said nothing about this -- since after all, he had himself kept the Knight Captain's quarters rather than moving into the Knight Commander's.

     Carver nodded, obviously thinking along the same lines.  "Meredith's suite's still empty.  It's big, lots of rooms.  Uh... two people could live in there, easy.  Yeah?"

     _Oh._   Cullen began to smile.

     "Well," he said, making a show of thinking, "I had thought it politic to leave the suite vacant, in case Val Royeaux should appoint a proper Knight Commander -- "

     " _You are_ the proper Knight Commander for Kirkwall."  Carver's voice had gone sharp with conviction.

     "As has been made clear by recent events, yes."  He sat back and steepled his fingers.  "Very well, I shall requisition new furnishings and have a crew of recruits make it ready.  For us."

     He barely heard Carver's exhalation, but he saw the man's great mail-clad shoulders move with it.  Then Carver chuckled a little.  "Not Tranquil, but recruits?  Andraste's flaming arse, Cullen, they'll be fantasizing about everything we'll _do_ on those new furnishings.  They'll write fucking _songs_ about it."

     Cullen allowed himself a very small smile.  "I know."

     Carver threw a startled look back at him.  Then he burst into chuckles, which grew to a belly-laugh; still laughing, he went through the door and off to his duties.  Cullen could hear him still laughing down the hall, and all the way to the yard.

#

     There were three letters waiting on Cullen's desk when he finally returned to his duties.  Many more than three, of course; his desk was absolutely piled with documents that Carver hadn't had the authority to sign, though Cullen could tell Carver had done what he could to keep the backlog down.  Still, these three letters were the most significant.

     The first was from Seeker Captain Pentaghast, he saw with some surprise, addressed to him _"in the event that you survive."_   Grimacing, he read it, and was a bit taken aback to find that it contained an invitation to join the Seekers of Truth, should he ever grow tired of his "little city".  And of course the invitation extended to Knight Captain Carver, provided he could sufficiently prove his martial prowess as Cullen had already done.

     He tossed that one into the fireplace.

     The second contained a bill from Guard Captain Vallen, for the overtime that had been required to bring out Kirkwall's City Guard in response to what should have been a matter internal to the Gallows.  With this bill, however, came a note from the Captain, apologizing for the bill -- it had been, naturally, Viscount Bran's suggestion.  But the note then concluded, _"And perhaps you should consider making an honest man of him, if you're going to go so far as to risk the city for his sake."_

     Cullen scrawled out a quick note of reply -- _"I am taking steps in that direction, never fear, and please stop meddling, thank you"_ \-- and paid the bill.

     The third was just a small, folded slip of paper, half-hidden among some other documents and not in the pile that held his correspondance.  Cullen found it only several days after digging into the backlog, and puzzled over it at first.  It had come in no envelope and bore no seal; he had no idea how it had even reached him.  When he unfolded it, the note was unsigned.  It read, simply, in a scrawling hand: _"Thank you for taking care of my little brother."_

     This note Cullen carefully re-folded and tucked inside his armor under the mail shirt, right against his skin.  Then as soon as duty allowed, he excused himself with the nightwatch and hurried off to find Carver, heart-full of good news.

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the CGI film "Dragon Age: Dawn of the Seeker," and while I thought it was badly-written and a bit creepy -- can't really recommend it, except for the DA completist -- I did decide to run with the idea that Cassandra Pentaghast is borderline superhuman and can use anime physics in combat. So no, Cullen didn't really have a chance; that wasn't the point. He fought even though he *knew* he had no chance; that was.
> 
> Really hoping Carver doesn't come off too passive or damsel-in-distress here. What I was hoping to convey was that the only thing which constrains him -- ever -- is Cullen's pride. Let me know if that works, please; constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> I really hadn't meant for this thing to get so long, goddamn it. Just meant to toss the boys into bed, but then plot jumped me from behind a bush. -_- But yes, a fangirl did save the day for our happy couple, along with Viscount Bran's ever-awesome snark. (I gotta write something about Bran someday. He's such an utter *dick* that you kinda have to love him.) Sometimes a deus ex machina's just too much fun not to write. I might add more to this eventually, but not anytime soon; I've got work to do first, and I've played hooky writing fanfic for too long. Won't be busy forever, tho', so we'll see.


End file.
